Cooking with Memories

In my kitchen I have a colander that has seen long use and better days.  One of its 3 legs is wonky, a large dent mars its rounded shape and a small crease has a bit of rust.  It has the feel of age, its design a repeating pattern of small holes that is definitely not au courant.  

It has a companion:  a sparkly bright modern large-holed colander with a solid round base...no legs to wobble.

I use my Mom's every time.  Its dents and wonky leg go unnoticed.  Using something of hers in the kitchen makes me happy.  I feel the connection to her and to all those times we spent in the kitchen together.  

One of my first cooking memories is of a cold  and snowy Thanksgiving in our walk-up flat in Chicago.  

It is the day before Thanksgiving and I am 4 years old.  I am sitting on the floor, my legs straight out in front of me, white socks and lace up shoes on my feet, a red and black plaid pleated skirt covering my legs.  I hold our large dutch oven on my lap and I am picking the homemade loaf of bread into pieces for the next day's stuffing.  My mom is busy at the stove.  I am happy.

The colander reminds me of this memory and many others; it is a welcome connection to the past.  My Mom taught my sister and I to cook, her feet up after a hard day, instructing us on how to prepare yet another of her magical 150+ ways to turn hamburger into something...from her porcupine meatballs to empanadas to mystery casserole.  

The colander was always there, perhaps hidden in the back of the crowded cupboards, but definitely a star when needed, just as it is today.  I cherish it, I cherish the memories it brings, I still cherish my Mom, gone these many years.  When I hold the colander, it is a tiny bit like holding her.

My Dad was a dreamer; my Mom did not have that luxury.  She was the practical one, the one who made the budget and kept to it, the one who darned socks, made our clothes, kept our house clean, made the hard times seem easy. 

I learned many lessons from my Dad, the dreamy ones about being an archaeologist or a musician or buying a hard-scrabble place in the middle of nowhere and fleeing the city life.  From my Mom, I learned to cook and sew and clean and budget, to stick to a task, to finish what I start, to keep the worn and wonky if you can still use it.

The colander, worn and wonky, still works.  I still use it.  

Thank you, Mom.  Welcome to my kitchen.